Shadows of the Rift Valley

The air in Kibuye was heavy with humidity from the lake and with smoke from the roadside grill Jessica stood in front of hoping to get served. Six months into teaching English in Rwanda, and Jessica lamented how she was still seen as a “Muzungu”—an outsider—viewed with a distant curiosity by locals, and with stark suspicion by those who knew her ex-boyfriend, Emmanuel.

Back in Short Hills, New Jersey, Jessica remembered wanting to be different than her parents, to ride above their performative liberalism and empty rhetoric. Staring at Lake Kivu, she now wondered if she had traded one imperfect reality for another.

The day she had snapped, her mom was declaring, again, that she was tipping her house cleaner an extra $5, saying it was ‘the right thing to do’.

“Tipping your maid an extra five bucks doesn’t make you Rosa Parks,” Jessica told her.

“Well, it’s a nice thing to do, anyway.”

“You should create real jobs for disenfranchised minorities. Or protest!”

Her mother sighed and adjusted her yoga mat. “You’re young, Jessica.”

“What does that have to do with anything ?”

Her father chimed in, flipping through his newspaper. “We vote Democrat. Always have.”

“That’s not enough!” Jessica’s voice cracked.

“Well, I am friends with Phyllis at the gardening club, and she’s African American,” mom said. It was March, and mom hadn’t been to the gardening club or met Phyllis for over half a year.

Their argument escalated until Jessica grabbed her laptop, and rushed to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. After watching cat videos for an hour, she posted on Reddit: ‘How can I actually make a difference?’ The replies came pouring in.

Three years later, she was standing at the roadside grill in Rwanda, with Lake Kivu stretching out to the horizon. A wiry man working there brushed chili sauce on the meat skewers hissing on the barbecue. She noticed they didn’t eat much fish despite their location. The villagers said the lake, a wide expanse of water which separated Rwanda from the DRC, wasn’t good for fishing.

“Good to see you, Jessica!” the man suddenly said in Rwandan accented English, not looking up.

Jessica squinted. “Do I know you?”

He chuckled, flipping the meat on the grill. “Everyone knows of the only foreign teacher living in Kibuye. And the other Muzungu, Mark.”

“The other Muzungu?” she asked, brushing dust from her jeans.

“The Muzungu who gives good tips.” The man smirked, tending the flames again.

Jessica rarely came to town, spending her days, and most nights, at a middle school in the outskirts, teaching English to roomfuls of enthusiastic children sat around wobbly plastic tables. She mostly helped them learn basic vocabulary, and in turn, they taught her Kinyarwanda. Their optimism was infectious though the job was a grind—long hours with no outside resources. But every smile from a child who learned something new felt like a victory.

As she sipped a Fanta, a sleek SUV roared past, kicking up dust. In the passenger seat, a Caucasian face caught her eye. The vehicle’s door bore a logo: KivuWatt.

“Maybe Mark will come to eat next time,” the proprietor said watching the car drive past.

She was reminded of how the entire village seemed to track foreigners’ movements, including hers, and it made her flush.

Earlier that year, Jessica had dated Emmanuel, a local teacher with a warm smile and a passion for knowledge. Their relationship started unexpectedly, fueled by late-night talks about Rwanda’s culture and dreams of improving local education. But right when everything felt easy, she began to be told the things she was doing wrong. Emmanuel’s family expected her to follow tradition—cook at gatherings, defer to elders. She’d tried to be their friend, but her American humor and playful jests never seemed to land the right way. Emmanuel’s sister had told her, “You don’t understand us, Jessica. You’re here, but you’re not with us.” After a final argument, Jessica told Emmanuel she needed a break–needed to get away from all the judgement, despite trying her best to adapt.

Their breakup left consequences. In a small town like Kibuye, word spread fast. Locals whispered but wouldn’t tell her what was being said. Emmanuel’s cousins and relatives would stare in town, then look away when she noticed them. She was an outsider who’d overstepped. She wondered if her work at the school would ever outweigh the local gossip.

The next day, the same shiny SUV she saw in town was parked in front of her school. A tall, tanned white man with a scruffy beard and an air of confidence stepped out and approached her. “Everyone in this village told me about you,” he said, grinning. “Thought I’d stop by and say hello. I’m Mark.”

Jessica crossed her arms. “So you assume because you drove up in a shiny new car, I’m your new friend?

Mark raised an eyebrow and held up his hands. “Just saying hello, neighbor.”

“Entitled rich people,” she muttered, turning to walk away. She called out to some of her students, who quickly surrounded her. A flock of children became her shield, protecting her from the unwanted intruder. Looking back, she laughed at how she tried to ban school uniforms to “empower” local girls in her first month, yet now she could see how proud they were to wear them.

Later, she reflected that she didn’t have any evidence that Mark had acted inappropriately in introducing himself, in his situation, as the only other foreigner in Kibuye, and perhaps she had been harsh.

A week later, she saw him eating by himself in the Nonzi Restaurant, a local restaurant downtown. She kept thinking of going over to apologize as she sipped her latte. He detected her, and Jessica panicked as he immediately smiled, stood up, and came over to her table.

“Hi, have we met before?” he said, and then greeted her in perfect Kinyarwanda, "Muraho! Ndabona umunsi mwiza!"

Her heart raced as she tried to think of something to say. “My barbecue guy says good things about you... Mark?” She asked his name tentatively, despite already knowing it. Foreigners in Africa hear about each other long before they actually meet.

He must have heard every snippet of gossip about her as well. She felt exposed. But Mark proceeded to talk graciously, as if he was learning about her for the first time.

“What brought you to Kibuye?”

“I’m teaching kids. Signed up for Teachers across the Rift Valley, what about you?“

“My parents were missionaries here in the 80s. And… the energy industry.”

“So, are you successfully exploiting Africa’s natural resources for a profit?”

Mark’s grin faded slightly. “We’re pulling up methane from Lake Kivu. It powers a plant, 20 megawatts of electricity. We provide electricity for this town, and the coffee mill and brewery; they wouldn’t have a stable source without us.”

He reminded her of every MBA business student at Princeton. “Thanks for the corporate marketing pitch. Good salary?”

He stepped closer, voice softening. “You may not believe this, but I could’ve stayed in Texas and made twice as much. I’m here because I want to be here, just like you, I’m guessing.” He leaned forward, his tone suddenly grave. “You know, Lake Kivu could explode and kill everyone on its shores if we don’t get the methane out. The gas is building up, it’s like a bomb.”

After being so careful about what she said around Emanuel and his family for months, it felt refreshing to have an open debate.

Jessica’s eyes widened. “Explode? You’re serious? Should I run for the hills?”

“Dead serious,” Mark said. “It happened in Cameroon. Hundreds dead. Look it up. Right now, anything could trigger it…” He trailed off, sipping his coffee.

She shook her head, unnerved. “And you’re still here?”

“So are you,” he replied, a faint smile returning. His mobile vibrated, and he looked at it. “I need to get back to the rig. It was nice meeting you…?”

“Jessica.”

“Jessica.” He repeated her name as if it was very important information to remember, paid his bill, and as quickly as he came to her table, he left.

That evening, in a restless sleep, she felt the ground tremble. Her phone buzzed with an alert: a 3.5-magnitude earthquake, centered in the rift valley east of here. She dismissed it — small quakes were common — until she remembered what Mark said. Lake Kivu is like a shaken can of soda waiting for a trigger to burst out.

One can live “in the shadow” of a nuclear power plant, can one live in the shadow of a lake? At any moment, everything around her could come toppling down. Yet, people had children and built home, and restaurants. Humans are ants building anthills that will one day crumble. In the long run, the towers of New York or computer centers of Silicon Valley are no different.

After class, as she walked Sambaza Beach, the sun dipping below Lake Kivu’s horizon, the barbecue man approached, wiping his hands on a rag.

“Teacher Jessica! Come and meet my family,” he said, gesturing to a group at a nearby table. A woman with a bright smile and two young boys waved shyly. “This is my wife, Marie, and our sons, Paul and John.”

“Hello! Hello!” the boys giggled.

“Mwaramutse bose! “Jessica said, shaking their hands, everyone smiling at her Kinyarwanda greeting. She glanced at the barbecue man. “I met the other Muzungu, Mark.”

“Good!”

“He was telling me about the lake… that it could explode because of the methane?”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Nonsense. I’ve lived here my whole life.” His eyes hid a quiet resignation, one that said the risk was just another part of his life by the lake, one of many. “There’s a civil war on the other side of that lake, a civil war!”

“There’s definitely a lot going on…”

“We must enjoy every day, teacher Jessica. Every day!”

After she left the family to finish their dinner, she looked out at the water, its surface deceptively calm. Her old anger—at her parents, at injustice in America—felt distant. She was learning, teaching, connected to a new place and its people. Maybe that was enough.